Brother O Brother
by AppleA
Summary: Extreme crackfic, and dash it all, this is my first fanfic ever! The idea wouldn't leave, so after three sleepless nights trying to get it out of my head, I gave up. Are the Watson brothers really who they seem to be?
1. Chapter 1

Hi! I'm AppleA, and I'm a new fanfic writer. Seriously, this is not only my first Sherlock Holmes fanfic, it's my first fanfic ever. so reviews and suggestions are amazingly apreciated. Just my luck, my only inspiration is complete crackfic. xP I've got another story in the works, this one is only supposed to go 2 chapters, and yes, my other plot is extreamly crackfic. ;-;

My excuses (because everyone love a good one) :

First off: Inspiration came at 2am, my muse had smores. X.x

Second: No, Watson is not a cad in this story...there is a twist in this story. :)

Edit-I added in those missing w's and seperated some of the lines. I appologize for the confusion, you see, I'm missing my 3, d, w, and ? keys, so I solve that problem by typing the story & then adding the letters back in after I get them from eith the URL or another pg. So I frequently miss a few, and mix ups happen, like "when" becomes "hen". Feel free to point these out to me and laugh at my face. xP

* * *

A rough, drunk looking man made his meandering, stumbling, way into a shady, ill-kept, decrepit building.

After knocking on the door heavily several times, he was admitted. He managed to slur "Ten pounds for the best you've ...hic… got." after several false starts to a slimy man in his late 20's.

The man behind the counter as remarkably and very suggestively dressed…and the rest of the establishment seemed to follow suit. Young men lounged at a lively bar, chatting up older (less sober) men, while the latter appraised them like so much cattle about to be bought.

"And do you have any…preferences my good sir? "The man almost purred, but it as too suave to be called that. "S'mone young…inexperienced like." The man stumbled out in a drink-maligned Cockney slur, as he pulled out several rumpled bills, sliding them across the counter and receiving a room key in exchange. "Number 122, on the right." The man was all business, smart and matter-of-fact. "and should you need a place to rest…before venturing out, feel free to sleep in the bed." The drunken man merely grunted, and the solicitor of the rooms nodded and made a note on his desk " 122; will have a hangover. Do not let go until completely sober & capable of avoiding detection."

Meanwhile, the man stumbled up the steps to room 122. After unlocking the door, he faced a young man in his mid twenties looking extremely nervous.

He as a fresh-faced young man with hazel eyes, brown hair, clean-shaven, and generally possessing a countenance that inspired a feeling of youthful trust in the world.

"Yes sir? " his tone as shaky, his voice somewhat higher than it seemed his normal tones would be, although he was built along the lines of a malnourished rugby player.

After making sure the door was locked, a strange change came over the man. He straightened up, gaining about 6" until he seemed to tower over the rent-boy on the bed. His eyes became alert, their piercing grey color taking stock of the surroundings, and both his slur and Cockney accent transforming into a semi-high sounding accent, like that of a county squire.

But to the rent-boy, the strange man's athoritive manner made him seem on par with any member of the Royal family, for all that the man (past his manor and costume) seemed to be in his early 20's.

In that high English, he rapt out the strange orders in a commanding tone to the rent-boy "Might as well make yourself comfortable boy, I shan't be using your services to-night."

The rent-boy sat fairly astonished at this proclamation, a slow spreading grin crossing his face like pooling honey, his hazel eyes harboring some small measure of –hope?

His delight obvious to his companion, who snorted "Am I really so unattractive as that? " , his grey eyes sparkling at the rent-boys glee. "Oh no sir," blurted out the rent-boy, nearly babbling in his relief, "it's just I don't like men."

This declaration prompted a quirk of a raven eyebrow. "Really? I should think that's a supreme hindrance in your profession."

The rent-boy blushed scarlet and muttered unhappily "Yes…yes it is…" The eyebrow contrived to go higher up into the hairline.

"May I ask then, what you are doing in this situation? " The rent-boy blushed even redder, giving a fair impression of a tomato. However, he showed a supreme amount of control worthy of the army and managed to subdue that unruly red to a faint pink at his cheekbones.

His chin jutted out as he threw back his challenge, "May_ I_ ask what you are doing by hiring a man and then proclaiming a lack of interest? "

The grey-eyed man treated him a quick grin. "Touché. I am here to catch a murderer in the lower salon in" here he drew his pocket watch and after consulting in, snapped it shut "thirty minutes from now."

His audience, for the man acted like he as on stage at every moment, gave a gasp. "Really? How? Who are you? "

The grey eyed man flashed another smile and said "My name is Mister Sherlock Holmes, and that's my job."

The honey-and-hazel rent boy scrambled to his feet and introduced himself. "My name is Henry Watson, at your service."

"I should hope so, I paid ten pounds." There as that same quicksilver smile. Henry froze at this, then relaxed, realizing that the joke as most likely well meant.

Mr. Holmes noticed this of course, and replied to Henry's momentary loss of movement with slight, almost unnoticeable concern.

"I'm sorry, that was terribly tactless of me."

Henry merely smiled brightly at him, his smile suffusing his eyes, completely changing him from the nervous wreak he was mere minutes before. "Oh it's quite alright, no harm done." He said quite amicably. Mr. Holmes relaxed slightly at Henrys easy-going demeanor.

"It occurs to me that you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here if you have absolutely no interest in men? Surely someone would have, forgive me, complained, by now? "

The haunted look returned to Henry's eyes as he replied woodenly. "Oh no, some men…enjoy it."

Mr. Holmes choose his gentlest voice as he replied "I can tell this has no fond memories for you. You needn't tell me if you have no desire to." In his private thoughts he answered his question to himself why a rent-boy wore so many clothes, Henry quite literally had on every buttoned article of clothing he seemed to be able to lay his hands on. It obviously was a meager form of protection against the inevitable.

Henry looked at Mr. Holmes, biting his lips. He felt the urge to tell this man everything, if only to be able to do _something_ about his situation. After some deliberation, his eyes never leaving Mr. Holmes's, he replied in a broken, halting narrative that grew stronger with every word, although it was a painfully short and to the point narrative.

"My brother, John,… sold me to cover his…addiction. He was a surgeon in Afghanistan, and was wounded in the shoulder. The pain…was unbearable. His doctors gave him high…dosages of…painkillers. Morphine particularly. When he was…honorably discharged, he still kept taking the morphine. The cost…eventually plunged him into debt. So, since he can't work, he sold me here to pay for it." He ended his narrative with a shrug, feeling oddly relived to have told his story.

He didn't look at the other mans eyes, for fear he might see contempt. Contempt that he didn't run away, contempt that he didn't help his brother enough, contempt at his station in life. He was soon startled from his revere by the smell of tobacco.

Mr. Holmes had lit a cigarette, and as staring at him with the oddest look on his face, like Henry was a peculiar anagram he was trying to solve. Henry looked back with defiance, his solid, yet emaciated shoulders squaring. He settled however, after looking into Mr. Holmes eyes and seeing nothing confrontational there.

After a few minutes quiet silence, he said with a level, deep voice that seemed to suit him like wine in oak barrels, "And how about you? Why are you here? "

Mr. Holmes broke of his thought to reply with a vague smile "I've already told you, I'm here to catch a murderer in," here he consulted his watch again "Fifteen minutes."

"Well, yes, but how do you know he's going to be here? "his voice gentle, with sincere curiosity in those wide eyes. Mr. Holmes looked a bit perturbed by this sudden prompting for his story when he had fully prepared to wait these thirty minutes in silence with some miffed –Soiled dove? More like soiled eagle, he thought with a smile.

But then again, it was only natural that the lad should be curious, considering that he had rashly told him his purpose outright. And he was not such a lad, Sherlock Holmes realized. He was about the same age as himself! There as a cause for a shudder if there ever as one, but he firmly repressed the notion.

Instead he found himself telling this rent-boy, _Henry _W_atson_, he hastily corrected himself, _he does have a name_, how he tracked the murderer of three men to this particular den of deviance. "And once I saw the talcum powder on the sole of the statue, of course the logical action would be to lay a trap in the very place I knew he would soon frequent." He paused for a moment to enjoy the look of pure unadulterated admiration and awe on Henry's face, something he rarely saw working with Scotland Yard, many of whom were older than him and tended to pay him no heed. "Speaking of which, I believe I shall go down to the bar, seeing as it's five minutes to time." with that he rose, and Henry scrambled to his feet.

"I say, do you mind if I come with you? " Mr. Holmes turned and a fleeting look of incomprehension fitted across his features before they settled into their customary mask.

"Only, you see," there was that stutter again, "If I stay here and you return the room key, Jorran will send someone else up here." Henrys handsome face took on a momentary look of panic, followed by a half-hopeful, half-pleading expression.

"Then come quickly!" Mr. Holmes as already out the door and partially down the steps. Henry allowed him self a happy grin before quickly setting off after him.

* * *

TBC, just who is this cold blooded killer? And what's going to happen to Henry?


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Holmes quickly assumed his drunken slouch, stopping Henry just before the bottom of the stairs leaning heavily on him, murmuring reprovingly "Wipe that grin of your face, you look like the cat that got into the creamery." Henry quickly struggled to comply, but his natural thespian abilities were horribly lacking.

Fortunately, no one paid attention to him, as he settled Mr. Holmes in a discreet corner. No-one bothered to give them more than a cursory glance, and in three minutes Mr. Holmes was seated most satisfactorily in a perfect vantage point of the bar, his hands on Henry's knee's just in case anyone spared them a second glance. For two minutes, no one did.

Then a man slightly stumbled up to the bar and ordered a glass of gin. He was almost as dark as Henry – Sherlock Holmes made a mental note to ask Henry why he was so tan, as a matter of exact knowledge latter- and was dressed in ill-fitting clothes, namely a navy blue jacket that appeared to be the only one he had by the stains, and Sherlock Holmes slouched a bit lower to disguise his shinning eyes at several of the larger and darker ones.

He noted that although giving every indication of being left handed, he held the drink in his right, his left shoulder slightly hunched. The splashes on his dark pants seemed to indicate he had taken the cheaper, pedestrian route rather than call a cab, but in the poor lighting, Mr. Holmes couldn't see the mud clearly. After some debate, he narrowed it down to two streets in Whitechapel.

His excitement grew. This was his man.

After making sure his gun was at the ready in his pocket, he stumbled over to the man. Henry followed, not catching some of the frantic signs Mr. Holmes was giving him to stay away. The latter squashed an urge to grind his teeth, but it would be out of character to verbally send Henry away. So he prayed that he wouldn't get caught in any violence that was bound to happen in a moment.

He staggered up to the man, the killer, who was sitting staring unseeing into his drink.

"Hello sir. No, don't get up. You see I know what you did to those three people. Oh yes, don't look so startled. My name is Mister Sherlock Holmes, and I am a detective. Oh dear, please don't try that. You see, I've already got _my _gun trained on _you_. And I bet I could squeeze this trigger faster than you could pull out _yours._ Now come along quietly." The man sat by his drink, apparently not hearing the last order. After an inestimable amount of time, the man slowly got up.

He took several steps to the door, Mr. Holmes' gun trained upon him.

The man had a long stride, giving him a slight distance away from Mr. Holmes. Suddenly, he used that distance to duck behind a pillar.

The shot Mr. Holmes gave froze the room, but before the bang had faded, the killer pulled out his own gun and shot at Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, moving at a speed Henry would hardly credit him with, pulled a spectacular dive, turning over a table in mid air, heedless of the drinks. The moment the killer saw this, he fired one shot at the table and ran, and soon Mr. Holmes was hot on his heels, as Henry took a side rout, threading his way through the tables, to keep up with them.

The killer had a few feet in distance, and just as he was going out the door he turned to shoot once more, far quicker than Mr. Holmes could react to. Henry saw him pull out the gun and tackled Mr. Holmes to the ground with a perfect dive square at Mr. Holmes chest as there as a table in between them, preventing him from performing the standard tackle at the waist, and landed in a sprawled heap on the detective. The object of this tackle swore loudly, pushing Henry off. "Damn! He's getting away!" He whirled furiously, his eyes narrowing "Why the deuce did you…" he stopped abruptly, looking at Henry, on the ground, his face paler than his tan should have seemed to allow, biting his lip and hugging his leg, which was bleeding profusely.

Sherlock Holmes quickly forgot about the criminal as his knelt by Henry, who gasped at him through pain-clenched teeth "Are…you –gasp- ok? " "Am _I_ok? My dear boy, I'm not the one who got _shot_. Come let's have a look at that leg." He stated the brusquely, but there was an undercurrent of concern in his voice. This changed to alarm as Henry blacked out from the pain, falling backwards to the filth strewn floor until Mr. Holmes caught him and picked him up like a child, for all that Henry as built along solid lines he was underweight from starvation.

_He probably couldn't afford food _Mr.Holmes found him thinking absently as he ran frantically to hail a cab, Henry in his arms. After running what felt like two blocks, Henry bleeding all the while, _Ho_w_much blood does he have_?_, _he finally came across a cab. "To the nearest hospital!" he cried out to the shocked cabbie, who promptly flicked the reigns, much chagrined at the thought of the bloodstains that would soon adorn his cab.

* * *

Henry awoke in a hospital. _But, _he thought, _it doesn't smell like a hospital…at least, I don't think hospitals smell like tobacco._

He turned his head and saw Sherlock Holmes sitting next to his bedside.

"The criminal?" his voice slurred. Oh heavens, they'd given him morphine. He suppressed a groan just in time to pay attention to Mr. Holmes' words. "As soon as the doctors informed me of you stable condition, I paid a couple of street arabs to track him down and report his whereabouts to me." He paused and gave a thoughtful puff on his pipe. "A fine job they did too…I shall certainly have to look into hiring them again…" Lost in a train of thought, he puffed contemplatively on his pipe in silence for a few moments. Henry lay quiet, unwilling to disturb his train of thought, and instead used his time to survey Mr. Sherlock Holmes bereft of make-up.

He noted the high cheekbones-and the way they jutted out too prominently, he noted the grey hooded eyes-and he noted the signs of lack of sleep under them. So he spoke his concerns. "Are you sure you're getting enough sleep? You look awful Mr. Holmes." He got another one of the quick smiles that were peculiar to Mr. Holmes. "Please, after a man saves my life, I think I can let him drop the Mr."

At Henry's look, Holmes allowed himself a small measure of pride at his evading the subject. He disliked the notion of anyone concerned about his health so.

Henry lay back with a small smile on his face. He closed his eyes peacefully for a few minutes, the only change in the room to mark the passing of the time were the dust motes drifting in their lazy dance and the puffs of Holmes' pipe. After resting as such, he quite surprised Holmes by starting violently, causing Holmes to rush to his bedside and grip his hand.

"My dear boy, calm yourself!"

"But I can't!" Henry's face as the picture of terror and misery. "I have no money to pay for this, and Jorran will have my hide for leaving _and I'll have to go baaaack!_ " He fairly wailed this last statement. Holmes looked fairly astonished at this and soon his face set in a dreamy, abstract determination that marked him as having thought upon the problem and finally hit upon a satisfactory conclusion. "For the cost my dear sir, I'm paying. After all, it's my fault. As for going back…there's no question of that…you shall come room with me until satisfactory lodgings have presented themselves." He nodded at this. Henry's face as the text book example of astonishment.

"But….Holmes, you can't!" His distress as touching, but completely unwarranted in Sherlock Holmes's irritated opinion.

"Why in heavens name not? "

"Sir…_Holmes_, you can't take up lodgings with a…"here Henry blushed and stammered, giving every indication of being uncomfortable and unhappy "a rent-boy. People will talk…your reputation…you can't afford to pay for my food and lodgings too! You look like you've barely got enough to eat!" Holmes threw back his head and laughed at that last statement, the first true laugh Henry had heard in a long time.

He soon quieted and remarked thoughtfully "You've hit one problem though. I really can't keep you at Montague street, there's only two rooms, both of which, I'm sad to say, are thoroughly uninhabitable. No, this will never do…" He tapped his chin with his pipe to punctuate that last sentence. Just then a message-boy came in with a telegram.

"Ah! From the little street sparrows!" He quickly tore open the missive, and as soon as he finished his face fell.

"What? What is it?"

He looked at Henry's pale, anxious face and the dawn of an idea came to him. "Nothing that a few inquires can't solve." He stood up, his eyes narrowing.

* * *

He stood outside Scotland Yard, the boy –Wiggins was his name, dancing with impatience for his pay as he told his story like a Gatling gun with lice.

"Yewsee,hewasapantin'likehewasout'obreathan'thenhepopsintothetavernan'keepsdrinkingalthoughhelookslikehe'shadtoomuchbeforehecamebuthewon'tstopdrinkin'an'thenhekeelsoverdeadasmyshoesan'thasallsah!"

Sherlock Holmes merely nodded to him, not batting an eyelid at the story's delivery, and promptly handing him two shillings. The boy snatched his prize and said in a somewhat slower speed "If yew need anyfing else, you'll kno' here ta find me." He received another curt nod for his pains as Sherlock Holmes bounded up the steps to the morgue.

"Ah, Constable Lestrade. I see it's your turn to examine the latest nameless victim of gin." He used his blandest manner to a small, lean constable just beginning to look over the corpse, who sighed, giving every sign of being bone-weary.

"Look Holmes, if you want to test your theories on this corpse go ahead. I'm too tired to fight your inanities about "the science of deduction"." After such an odd speech, he moved over to allow Holmes a better position to search the corpse.

Although Wiggings had already told him the man's description in the telegram, it was something else to see a gin-soaked, morphine-addicted dead version of Henry on the slab.

"Have you found out the man's identity Lestrade? "

"No" the little man said shaking his head. "He's a regular John doe. You take the left side, I'll take the right." And thus situated, they proceeded to search the corpse. Lestrade was so tired and so focused on his task, he failed to notice Holmes perform a small sleight-of-hand tricks with the contents of the man's pockets. Namely, a small 50 guinea watch and three bills bearing the name "John H. Watson".

"Well Lestrade, I've seen all I needed to see. Good day." with that he politely tipped his hat to the sleepy mongoose of a man and stepped outside, jumping into a cab back to the hospital.

* * *

Upon his arrival and readmittance into Henry's room, he found the doctor had just given Henry another dose of morphine.

Sherlock Holmes sat on the chair next to the bed and took out his pipe and mulled an interesting thought over in his head.

_So his brother _w_as the murderer_. _John _W_atson…_w_ho looked exactly like his younger brother…_w_ho is currently in desperate need of funds…both are, or _w_ere, no_w w_ounded…need the pension office kno_w_ John _W_atson is dead_?_ All that needs to be done is to inform the pension office of a change in address…but _w_hat if they choose to ask for proof_?_ Henry could theoretically pose as his brother _w_ith my help…but can he forge his _w_riting_?… And the writing wasn't the only thing he needed to forge, Holmes realized; _he needs to be able to perform as a doctor too…no matter, that's easily solved by providing Henry _w_ith enough medical texts, and maybe sneak him into a fe_w_ lectures at the University …_

He felt the urge to smile broadly and contented himself with a few happy, large puffs on his pipe. _Yes, it just might _w_ork…_

* * *

Henry woke up to the unpleasant sluggish feeling he always got after morphine, so it took him some time to register the large amounts of medical books stacked around his bed, with numerous "To let" advertisements scattered over them, and it took him an even longer time to process the trunk at the foot of his bed to be his brothers.

He turned his head in confusion and was somewhat relived to see Holmes's strangely comforting presence, albeit his eyes were tinkling with a suppressed excitement that Henry didn't quite trust. So he listened to the detective with a slightly suspicious air as he leaned forward murmuring in an excited tone "I have a proposition for you…"

* * *

Holmes was shocked and slightly hurt by Henrys vehement rejection of his plan.

He had underestimated the amount of chivalry and deep-rooted sense of honor that ran deep in his prospective flat-mate. After loudly and extremely aptly vocally expressing his dissatisfaction with Holmes's plan, he proceeded to end his tirade with "That's an insult to my brother, and all those who fought in the Afghanistan war! Frankly I expected better of you Mr. Holmes, er, Holmes." He finished by what in a lesser man Holmes might be tempted to call childishly flouncing back into bed.

"But my dear fellow," he was careful to use his most soothing and tactful voice, "consider it a last repayment of your brother for selling you." He could tell by Henry's thoughtful manner of biting his lip that this was getting through to him.

"But….Holmes….I can't act to save my life…although I can imitate his writing…and the journals in the trunk can tell me everything I'll ever need to know about his time in the army…it still won't feel…right. Like I'm wearing someone else's skin. And I really can't act! What if someone suspects? " He turned his fearful hazel eyes, dark with terror, directly into Holmes's. Holmes decided to try a different, slightly more ruthless tract. "Would you like to go back to the whor…" "Don't say it!" Henry frantically pleaded. "Please, don't say that word!" "Ah, I thought so." Holmes settled back into his chair. "Now, as for our rooms. I've narrowed it down to four choices, although I must say the Baker Street premises seem the best of the lot…"

* * *

And the rest, as they say, is history. ;D

This crackfic and mangaling of the Cannon is my muses way of explaining the migrating shoulder, the fact that they both said "Sure I'll room with a total stranger!", the lack of mention about Watson's family, the fact that they never ever ever once mention each other's Christian names, and other small things of that nature. :P

I felt totally justified in my turning the older brother into a cad. Because, well, in the Cannon, he was. The Watson we all know and love is the same person as Henry, he merely traded names. Cannon's John Watson & my Henry Watson are one in the same. x)

I've got other things I can use this to explain...shall I continue this shameless crackfic? o.o


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